Speaking of summertime, I was just doing something that I haven't done
in too long. Nope, I was not running nekkid through a farmer's market. I
was at a park, lying on the ground, cool grass under my back, gazing up
at the evening sky through the branches and leaves of a tall maple tree
with my little dawg lying on my belly. It's important that you know your
trees when you do this, the last time I did it I mistakenly chose the
ground under a magestic Chestnut tree and guess what happened - you got
it - a rock-hard, spine-covered chestnut dropped from oh, seventy-feet
up or so, and struck hard in the center of my forehead. Yeeeeooowwwww!
Had it hit me in the crotch it would have been my duty to sue the city,
but as my forehead is like cement, I shook it off and moved under a
willow tree for further soul searching.
But I didn't call you here to talk about trees, what I had in mind was a
heart to heart talk about firecrackers! I hereby recommend that we discontinue their use. Does
that sound harsh and unreasonable? (please don't say unpatriotic, it
seems like everything I believe in lately is being called that) I realise that, with my background, I'm not the most obvious person to
lead this crusade against little explosive sticks. I'm referring of
course, to the time in junior high when I ended up on the 10-o'clock
news because I happened to inadvertantly toss a firecracker out the
window of the car my friends and I were cruising around in. It wasn't so
much the tossing of the firecracker, it was more the way our driver
turned around to laugh in great glee at the poor, unfortunate boy who
I'd intended to startle. Oh, he was startled alright, but less at the
sound of the firecracker than the louder sound of our car hitting two
parked cars and coming to an astonishing halt. This really happened.
Less than an hour later I was lying like a thief to the tv reporter
holding a microphone in my frightened little face.

"Well, the way it all happened wuz we wuz just drivin' by the school and
talking about our homework and then we thought we heard someone say 'lookout,
there's a firecracker!' and we all closed our eyes to protect 'em
from sparks and stuff and well, them cars just got in front of us!" I
pointed to the two trouble-making automobiles, a Buick and an Olds that
seemed almost to be mating. (the Olds was all hunched up over the tail
end of the Buick)

I prayed that my parents had already gone to bed and were not watching
Channel 7 that particular evening. As it turned out, they were in bed
but my aunt called them to tell them I had been in a wreck and was on
the news. Naturally, mom went into hysterics until my aunt explained
that you could see all my limbs on screen and that none were missing.
Unfortunately, we had been hauling a watermelon and it pretty much
splattered every window of our car. We quickly drew a crowd of people
who thought the watermelon juice was blood. I'm sure I looked odd on the
news, licking my hands and forearms and all.

So anyway, my point is, I'm being forthcoming about my past concerning
fireworks, explosives, various cans o' gasoline with socks in 'em, and
even the harmless backyard fires I used to start as a poor,
misunderstood boy. Despite my past, I really think we ought to outlaw
handheld explosives. I mean really, here we are in the age of terrorism,
you can't bring a toenail clipper onto an airplane, but little kids can
run all over the neighborhood setting off mini-bombs and bottle rockets?
Isn't something off-kilter here? Do we just allow this sort of thing
because we always have or could we possibly rethink this?

I'll say no more about it for now, but I'm hoping to start a dialogue
concerning the sales and ignition of gunpowder sticks of all kinds. Feel
free to invite your neighbors over and talk it over. Let me know if you
accomplish anything. For the moment, my work is done here.

Morning in Maine

I drove around New England for a week last month, playing several
concerts and making new friends. It was beautiful there, though
considerably warmer than I'd hoped. Two of my concerts were outdoors and
I found out the heat was the least of my problems. Have you ever seen
mosquitos the size of hummingbirds? Have you ever tried to finish a song
while ten or so of them are drilling for blood on various parts of your
body? It's difficult to sing tender lyrics as such a time. I have to
say, people seemed shocked when I began in insert random curse words
into some of my most sensitive ballads.

And I walk these sumbitch! hidden
roads,
I love these snowflakes and shit! this cold
And these nodnammit! homes with yellow windows
Shine their #%@! warmth into my soul

It was a unique version of Yellow Windows.
I'm hoping nobody got it on tape.

One of my favorite B&Bs
Noble House in Bridgton, ME

I finished up my New England tour on
Islesboro Island in Maine, staying at a lovely cottage on the rocky
shoreline. In so many ways it reminds me of the Northwest, the water and
islands, even the weather. The people were so friendly, welcoming me to
their island and sharing stories and island lore with me. There was one
thing that was distinctly New England about them and I got quite a great
kick out of it. People would be sitting around talking, doing various
things, and then one by one they would disappear for a few minutes and
then come back into the room with different clothes on. I'm not kidding.
They were dressing up for - I don't know exactly - evening, I guess.
They were dressing up for evening or mid-afternoon. When they returned
to the room, they would take up wherever they'd just left off; watching
golf on tv, reading, having a drink. I was way underdressed for New
England.

Singin' on the porch at Noble House in Maine

That's one of the problems with dressing for
several cities on one trip. For one thing, I'm already carrying a guitar
case, a bag full of CDs and my guitar effects, a laptop case and
personal bag. (you should see me struggling at airports, people gather
around and laugh and applaud) By the time I get around to packing
clothes I'm limited to a very few items. If I happen to be playing a
show in a cold climate and then another show on the same trip in a hot
climate, I'm screwed. If people at my concerts only knew that I'm
wearing the same damn shirt onstage in three cities . . .

Someone once approached me at intermission
at my concert at The Barns at Wolftrap in the Washington, DC area. They
held up a photo and asked if I'd mind signing this picture they'd taken
of me two years ago at my concert there. To my horror, I was wearing the
same shirt, vest and shorts. Well, I'm known for my songs, not my
fashion sense.

Returning to Seattle was a loooooonnnnggg
ordeal. My flight out of Portland, ME was cancelled. They put me on
another flight that would go through Chicago and get me home an hour
earlier than I'd planned. Alright! Then on the way to Chicago our plane
was diverted for thunderstorms to South Bend, Indiana, where we remained
for a few hours. Then on to Chicago where I missed the next three
scheduled flights to Seattle. Arrived home almost exactly 24 hours after
I'd set out that morning. In the hours I was waiting for my flight in
Chicago I came up with some travel tips that I thought I'd share with
you - free of charge. I just hope you have the good sense to use them.

Michael Tomlinson's suggestions
for a safe, trouble-free flight.

1.
Wear something sexy to the airport. (I wear a sock, but this may be
less attractive on a woman) It's often good for a first-class upgrade
if the "right person" is at the ticket counter. If a highly
receptive agent is at the ticket counter, it'll be good for first
class AND a free car at your destination. (not a free rental
car - a free car, to do with as you wish)2.
In case you don't get the upgrade to roomy first-class, bring garlic
to chew. I do this always and it assures that the arm rests on either
side of me will be free for my own very sensitive elbows. I don't know
about you but I simply cannot allow my elbows to bang about off of
people's chins for an entire flight.3.
Bring one of those electric jaccuzi-style foot-baths. Ask the flight
attendant to fill it with Ginger-ale and to bring you a
"tootsie-towel" when you finish. She'll know what you're talking about
and take good care of you. I suggest you bring your own extension
cord, they'll probably have to run it to the cockpit and unplug the
co-pilot's blender, but they won't mind if you're wearing the sexy
stuff.4.
Start drinking on the way to the airport. This is critical because
most flight attendants will only serve two-to-three alcoholic drinks
per person during flight for fear that a brawl or worse, a harrangue,
will result. A good buzz is a must for a happy flight. 5. Bring at
least two EXTRA carry-on bags that you simply acquire somewhere in the
terminal. Usually you can procure these in the restroom or in line at
McDonald's when someone is ordering a McBreakfast and all in a tizzy
about the excellent sausage. It doesn't matter what is in these bags,
you'll be gate-checking them both. Their value is in the bartering
power they'll gain you. No matter how full the flight is, a gate agent
will feel that since you've already given up two bags, they simply
cannot ask you to give up your other four and the pole lamp, too.6.
Getting through Security is serious bidnis these days. What I've done
is to incorporate certain items into my wardrobe that would not
normally be allowed in the passenger's cabin - yet all are of great
value to me in my travels. I absolutely MUST have a full set of
kitchen knives at my disposal when I travel. Though I personally do
not eat meat, if I DO get upped to First Class, I like to be able to
cut other people's rancid steaks for them. It's a courteous gesture
and I use the opportunity to talk about factory farms and the merits
of delicious veganism. Many's the time I've simply elbowed my way
between a honeymooning couple and started dividing her sirloin into
little diamond bites, then turned to chop his Cordon Bleu into the
consistency it should have been in the first place.

This will win you some serious friends and
it's worth the hassles going through Security. So how do I get through
Security with an array of kitchen knives? I bring a tray of donuts. I've
yet to meet the Federal Airport Security Agent who can concentrate on
bomb sniffing once there is a steaming tray o' donuts in the vicinity.
I've even used a machete to portion the donuts and nobody seems to
notice. Bring fresh donuts and you can get drive a Hummer through there.

These are just a few of the excellent tips I have for the hip, joyful
traveler. Hope you find them helpful.

Where the heck are those kitties?

Do you recall the garageful of kittens I am
host to? I'll tell it briefly for those who may not have read last
month's rambling.

A sweet, abandoned female cat started coming to my yard. I soon found
out she was pregnant and that concerned me. There are lots of feral
cats, raccoons, opossums in the neighborhood and I knew her kittens
would be endangered. I hoped she'd have her litter on my porch but
nothing doing, she chose to give birth directly under my couch as I sat
watching tv. I made a cave-like home in the garage and set about
learning how to raise cats. I hardly saw the kitties for the first
couple of weeks, not wanting to disturb them or alarm the mama cat, who
I named Gracie. When I got ready to travel last month I was really
worried about what I was going to do with them. Luckily, my neighbor
agreed to feed them and check in on them daily for me. I felt that the
kittens were going to need more room to explore so I moved my classic
convertible out into the drive under a picnic awning that is far too
small. It looks ridiculous and I'm sure the folks on the street wonder
what the heck I'm doing, but I figured my car would not suffer too badly
for a couple of months until I find new homes for the kittens.

And that's where YOU come in. Want a sweet tabby kitten for your very
own? The miracle is that a friend of mine has agreed to take Gracie and
TWO kittens! So that leaves three more. I'm going to keep them for four
more weeks, allowing them twelve weeks with their mama before I send
them off with anybody. These kittens are going to be so well-adjusted
and healthy. I feed them very well, I gradually have started touching
them more, rubbing their little bellies and picking them up now and
then. I want them to be very affectionate cats like Gracie is.

If you think you might be interested in adapting one, please email me
and I'll arrange a time for you to meet them.

singing to the sunrise in Maine

I will be in Seattle most of the summer,
probably playing a few shows around the country again this fall. If you
have any ideas about concerts, I appreciate hearing them. About half of
my concerts in the last year have been private concerts, created by
folks on my mail list who want to bring me in for a celebration or to
share with their friends and family. If you're ever interested in such
an event just go to my "concerts" link and read all about my various
concerts.

I'm also still trying to come up with the finances to record my next
band CD and will let you know when it's happening. Quite a few folks
have been mail ordering my new acoustic CD, Standing in Troublesome
Creek, and I'm getting great feedback about it. Still, I look forward to
seeing what a full band does with those songs and possibly a few more
I'm writing now.

On the roadside in New Hampshire

Two quotes have been sent to me recently
that touched me deeply. I've kept them printed on my computer screen so
that I see them often and I want to share them with you. The first one
is by Paul Ferrini, who has written some truly powerful, uplifting
books, among them, Unconditional Love, one of my favorites.

He says, "Authentic spirituality is the path to your own heart. It
leads through all of your fears and self deceptions. It is not a
journey of escape. It is a journey through your pain to end the pain of
separation".

This calls to me because I see myself in the words. I see my own
struggle in this lifetime to end separation, and I feel that this is
something all human beings are experiencing. The wars being fought on
this planet are not separate events, having no connection or roots in
humanity. War is fought because there is separation in our hearts, the
misconception that we are not All One People. It eventually manifests on
a larger field to reflect back to us who we are and what we are doing.
This is how I feel about it.

The next quote touched me just as deeply, it is
by someone I'm not familiar with, Doc Childer.

He says, "Be on the lookout for strain in each other, and with
compassion and understanding, lend a helping hand and a mature heart.
Helping each other manage emotional strain can yield creative
alternatives and build a new foundation for heart-based communication
and hope."

I think of a friend who I've not felt as connected to lately, I think of
people I don't know at all in lines in stores, in cars on the freeway.
And I realize that I do not always take into regard their strain, their
own burdens in life. What I desire to be is aware of that, conscious of
the difficult strain others are experiencing so that I'm more
understanding, patient, loving and forgiving.

Hanging out in the woods with Daisy in Maine

Well, a little brown spider just crawled
across my laptop and is heading for the leg of my shorts, so I must go
now and save myself from an unnecessary rash in a tender area. It's a
sign I guess, that I needed to shut up anyway.

Thank you for listening to my songs, for sharing my music with your
friends, and for checking in on me now and then through my website. I
hope this summer is a sweet one for you, get out there and lie on the
ground under a tree and think summertime thoughts. And keep away from
them dang gunpowder sticks.

I'm writing you from a chair I've mounted atop a tall pole in my
backyard. Actually, it's not so much a pole as it is a fire lookout
tower. (that's what I have to call it if I want to write it off my
taxes) Come to think of it, it's not really a chair either. I guess most
people would call it more of a, well, a
queen-sized-canopy-bed-with-built-in-massage-unit, but let's not get
technical. It's so peaceful up here sipping tequila smoothies, cawing at
crows and gazing out over the lovely neighborhoods of Seattle. And I
feel safe up here, too - ain't nobody gonna sneak up on me, that's for
sure. What pleases me most about my sky-high sleeping arrangement is
waking up with the hundreds of little tweety birds each morning. It's a
hoot to see them perched all over my pillow as I pry open my first
eyelid at the crack of noon. What pleases me nearly as much is feeling
around my bedding and finding that I've not plummeted to earth in my
sleep. Not only would the fall itself probably be a bad way to start the
day, the cats and raccoons and oppossums down there might pierce me with
their sharp scissor teeth if I came zooming down on them at 90 miles per
hour. (or however fast solid muscle falls) But let's not get ahead of
ourselves dreaming up silly hypotheticals. I prefer to keep to the
facts, ma'am.

I've had an interesting week. Last Saturday
I drove my '64 Malibu convertible up near the Canadian border to help a
friend of mine put up fence so as to keep her horses in. I didn't
understand that you can't just tell a horse to "stay in the yard".
It seems logical to me, but then I'm relying on all those cowboy movies
where the lanky rider would just loop the reins loosely around a post
and that dang hoss woudn't run away even during serious gunplay. So hey,
that's how I thought hosses wuz. Turns out, they gallup hither and yon,
wherever they want, and you have to have a damn fence stretched around
them if you want them to be there when you get in the mood for a trot.
(I recommend a gallup, you can crack all your teeth at a brisk trot)

My friend with the horses is Laurie. She also has a couple of donkeys,
some chickens, a dog - and very soon, the two kittens and mama cat she's
adopting from me. What I found that Laurie also owned was quite a number
of steel fence posts that needed hammering into the ground. The very
idea goes against my basic sense of what is right and wrong. Hammer a
steel shank into perfectly innocent ground? Certainly not! But that's
what I ended up doing. They make a tool strictly for this purpose. I'd
call it a special tool but it is nothing of the sort. Thousands of years
after the very first fence post was ever sunk, all our inventors have
managed to come up with is a piece of heavy steel pipe with one end
welded shut and a couple of handles that run up and down each side of
the pipe. What you're supposed to do is to hold each handle, lift the
heavy pipe high over the fence post and slam that sumbitch down with all
your might, driving the post downward. Not once or twice - but about
forty or fifty times. Per post. Can you visualize this? Can you really
see one of your favorite all-time folkslingers, the same fellow who
sings Yellow Windows with such tenderness, out there on the range
slammin' that damn pipe up and down like Atila the Pummeler until sweat
was spurting from my pores like ten-thousand little geyzers? Let's put
it this way - I didn't whistle while I worked.

Afterwards, I drove two hours home in a dark rain storm. On a nice sunny
day my convertible is a wonderful ride. In a storm it sucks. Rains
squeezes through every seam and drips and drizzles onto my legs and
head. The windshield fogs up because the defroster puts out about as
much air pressure as a mouse breathing. About halfway home I noticed one
of my wipers was making a racket. I looked closer and saw that the
rubber blade was sliding out of it's track and flapping around on the
windshield. If it slipped any further, not only would I have no rubber
blade to squeegee away the rain, I'd have a metal blade scraping arcs
into my windshield glass.

These aren't Laurie's horses...this is just how it
felt driving on the freeway

I didn't know what to do. I was on a freeway
filled with rabid drivers, roaring trucks, cars, RVs; all speeding as if
there was a sale somewhere on tuna melts and not that slick, glaring
flood of rainwater on the road around us. It would be too unsafe to pull
over on the shoulder - I was going to have to fix that wiper on the
roll. So I cranked down my window and tried to reach outside and push
the rubber back down the track. This is nearly impossible to do while
steering the car safely because you have to time your lunge perfectly.
Everytime that wiper would come back I'd surge out the window and try to
grab the blade and stuff it precisely back down it's narrow track. My
little dawg Bungee got all excited because the window was down and she
jumped into my lap to sniff the air and see if there were any dogs to
bark at. So now I'm doing several things that, though not specifically
prohibited, are certainly not recommended in the Washington State
Driver's Handbook. One; I'm steering with my knees. Two; I'm driving
with my upper torso out the window. Three; I'm holding a crazy dawg
under one arm, her little legs flailing frantically because she has
suddenly noticed the rapidly passing asphalt and she's getting ready to
run if she has to.

I tried turning the wiper on and off, hoping to stop it as it leaned
left toward me. But it wouldn't stop there. It always returned to the
right, well beyond my reach. I realized I had no choice but to grab the
thing and force it to stay long enough for me to fix the blade. The
problem was, I couldn't get the rythm. I kept lunging at it for ten
minutes before it occurred to me that the wrong song was playing on the
radio. It was some stupid country tune about chrome I think. I switched
channels until I came to a song that was exactly in sync with the wiper
blades and you'll never guess what it was; yep, Donny Osmand's Puppy
Love. I have no idea what station was playin' that piece of shit but
I'm grateful to 'em. It took me only a couple more tries and I finally
trapped that blade and yanked it down. The wiper motor began a shrill,
high-pitched screaming but I ignored the pleas and went at it. With
Bungee clutched hard under my arm, I locked my right calf hard around
the steering wheel to keep 'er between the lines and took several
interminable seconds to rearrange that contraption with both hands. It
couldn't have been a pretty sight, but then many heroic deeds are not
particularly beautiful in their execution - just gorgeous in retrospect.
In a rugged, manly way, I imagined it as a sort of man vs. machine
ballet, me wrestling that wiper and my little dawg squawking like a
chicken under my arm had to have been art of some kind. Whether you
would agree that it was a beautiful dance or not, let me just say that
rubber blade ain't slidin' nowhere ever again.

As for somebody to hammer some fence posts? I've moved and left no
forwarding address.

~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

This afternoon I played a concert at Northwest
Hospital here in Seattle. I had been asked to join three or four other
bands and performers for a concert celebrating the healing power of
music. Because of the rain they'd moved us from an outdoor setting into
a lunchroom. I can't recall the last time I played a cafeteria. It
reminded me of schooldays when you'd pass the lunchroom on the way to a
class and you'd smell the yeast rolls and your stomach would cramp in
hunger, making it absolutely insane to even attend your next class,
since you'd have nothing on your mind but those buttery rolls. It was
like that about halfway through my performance, I got a whiff of apple
pie and my eyes fluttered and rolled back for a moment. Luckily, I do
that in concert anyway so people didn't notice.

There was an elderly woman in a wheel chair
who caught my eye as I was taking the stage. There was a sweet moment
between us when we both silently said hi, just the two of us for a
flicker of time. She seemed perhaps in her 70s or 80s, fragile and
frail. She had an oxygen tube in her nose and I could tell it had taken
some effort for her to even be in the room. So I sang my songs for her.
I didn't tell anyone, and she was far to my left so I couldn't look at
her and as I sang - the microphone being directly to the front - but I
sang to her nonetheless.

After I finished my short concert I looked over at her and she was
smiling up at me. I packed my guitar and walked around to her and asked
if she had a way to play CDs at the hospital. She brightened and said
yes. I told her I wanted to give her a CD and she lit up even brighter,
beaming with pleasure that I would offer her a gift. I walked over to
the table where they were selling my music and grabbed Watching the
Storm Roll In. I think of it as one of my most healing albums, partly
because it's just me and guitar and the falling rain, but also because I
recorded it with peace and respite in mind. I walked back over to her
and she said, "My daughter had to leave the room because she started
crying when you said you wanted to give me your music."

A lump came to my throat . I'd just made a very small gesture, an offer
of an inexpensive gift to an old lady who might not be around many more
years. I hadn't thought of it as a thing that might make someone cry. I
asked her name so I could sign the CD for her and she said it was
Laurel. I love that name and told her. As I bent over her table to sign,
she said to me "The world is so full of love. Isn't it wonderful how
full of love the world is?" I looked at her and tears came to my eyes.
The small gesture I'd made had opened some beautiful current in her
heart and she seemed suddenly overcome with how much love was in the
world. I went back and picked up another CD for her daughter and signed
it for her. Another lovely name; Anina. I left it for her, knowing she'd
return when she was through crying. As I gathered my things a few
minutes later and walked out the door, I looked back and the two of them
were looking at me and smiling. Sometimes a small, almost insignificant
gesture can give you the hope and faith we lose again and again in this
crazy world.

I shared this with you in hopes that you'll remember that you have
something to give. Give any small thing you desire. A smile. A touch. A
kind word. A song. Offer to help your neighbor rake the leaves this
fall. Offer a massage to the love of your life. And more beautiful even
than any of these gestures is the genuine gift of blessing another human
being. Bless those you love and those you don't.

In these last few years I have struggled with a relationship that has
not come to peace. In my life I have almost always had the great,
blessed fortune of seeing my love relationships continue on as
friendships. We were once lovers and partners - we are now friends,
brother and sister in some ways. But there is one that I've struggled
with. I know the struggle serves me, brings up who I am and what I came
here to learn and to triumph over. But there has still been pain and
loss and loneliness. Recently I began reading a beautiful book that she
had given me years ago. I opened it to a chapter that talked about the
times in our lives when our thoughts are troubled over someone. No
matter the cause or the situation, it hurts us to be compelled to think
of someone and experience pain and turmoil when we do. Here is what I
read that I should say to any person who I am troubled over:

"I am sending you the Fullness of the Divine Love of my Being, to Bless
and Prosper you."

And so that is what I've begun doing every time there is someone I have
troubling thoughts about. The expression of this has relieved me
greatly, whether I am directing it toward a driver who has made me
angry, a friend or family member, or the President of the United States.
It just feels good to me to bless people that I am troubled over and I
hope plenty of people are out there blessing me as well.

I hope you enjoy these final weeks of
summertime and that you will have a lovely autumn. Thanks for checking
in on me now and then.

Yer ol' fren, ~Michael Tomlinson

October 1, 2004

Howdy my fine friends,

Directly
across from my coffee shop window is a small maple tree evolving into
several subtle shades of autumn; hues of scarlet and gold, lemon and
rust, copper and bronze. (no, I do not write for the J.Crew catalogue) I
know the Pacific Northwest, though famous for it's spectacular beauty,
is not particularly known for it's autumn colors, but having spent my
boyhood on the dusty Texas plains where dirt clods are
considered real spetchel, I find this foliage exhilarating. The first
year I came here to play a concert it was mid-autumn and I was thrilled
to be immersed in such golden, melancholy beauty. After I finished my
morning run through Volunteer Park and the back side of Capital Hill, I
had an idea for something I wanted to do; I retraced my path and
collected varieties of colorful leaves from the ground. It was
exhilarating to breathe the brisk November air and crunch through piles
of exotic leaves I'd never seen before. I couldn't believe how many
types and shapes and shades there were. I slipped off my jacket and
filled it with a bushel of brilliant leaves then carefully placed them
in a large envelope. That afternoon I mailed them back to my girlfriend
in Austin, where autumn leaves were not nearly as varied and colorful as
in Seattle. I enclosed a card inviting her to enjoy an autumn day - on
me, instructing her to lie back on the bed and toss them all up in a
flurry into the air above her. I knew I didn't need to tell her to
giggle. I'll leave to your imagination what I suggested she wear. Let's
just say that her description on the phone a few days later assured my
swift and eager return home.

I played a private concert in Beverly Hills
a couple of weeks ago. I hadn't been to Los Angeles in quite some time
and was surprised to arrive under a pale blue sky instead of the usual
brown one. I was staying at a hotel on Wilshire Blvd and as I looked out
over Beverly Hills from my room, the memories came flooding back to me
of my first concert there - in 1986, I believe. I've had a rather
strange career in music - if you can call it that. So much excitement in
the years of my first several albums - and then over a decade of just
barely having a career at all. There was a station in LA in those days
playing five songs off of my first album, Run This Way Forever, and it
astonished me that over a thousand people filled the Beverly Theater for
my very first performance in L.A. I was giddy, absolutely tingling
when I imagined where my new life seemed to be taking me.

As I sang last week I looked out on the
faces and thought about those earlier days and how my life has evolved.
I recalled seeing my songs written about in trade magazines and seeing
part of my Universal Amphitheater concert broadcast on CNN and hearing
the announcer describe me as a rising star. I remembered that, as much
as I was thrilled by it, I was also wary of that commercial world of
fame and celebrities, not so sure I ever wanted to become a person who
was recognized wherever I went. I certainly enjoyed it at times, when I
was younger it was quite exciting to be with my buddies and to notice
pretty girls whispering my name when we would wander around Seattle. But
even back then I knew that was about as much fame as I would ever
actually need.

My friend John Johnson told me once about a
remark he'd heard Bill Murray make when asked what he thought about
being rich and famous. He replied, "I suggest that you just try being
rich and see if that doesn't do it for you." I like his philosophy.

Every so often someone will email me and preface their message with "I
know you choose not to sell millions of records and all, but . . ." and
I have to chuckle. Believe me, I don't seek poverty and obscurity. I'd
happily sell millions of records and not look back. The first thing I'd
do is buy a home for the first time in my life - which is considered
quite the accomplishment in famously overpriced Seattle - some friends
recently showed me an ad for a sad little shack in North Seattle, not
much more than a garden shed, poorly maintained, 600 square feet, dirt
yard. The real estate company enthused with shameless brazenness;
"Urban Cabin! Only $229,000!" Whee! Life is good! Now, I'm seriously
considering shellacking the heck out of a tent and seeing if I can get
100-Grand for it. (Canvas Castle! Reduced to $100,000! New zipper;
close to busline! Excellent ventilation!)

No, it's not at all that I never wanted to sell a bunch of records, it's
that I have never been willing to do the things necessary to make it
happen. Record labels were always trying to get me to do duets with
artists I didn't know; trying to pair me up with someone that would help
me get more attention. (Michael Tomlinson and Tiffany!) I always
said to them, "You know, if I ever happen to meet certain artists and we
hit it off, I just might give it a try. But I'm not going to do it
because it would be a sharp commercial move." Actually, it wouldn't take
brilliance to get played on certain formats. For years I've known that
the surest way in the world to get a song on Smooth Jazz radio is to do
an instrumental remake of a pop hit - and make sure you put a saxophone
in it! Gots to have that saxophone.

Somebody recently wrote me and said, "How great it must be to be an
artist that cannot be categorized! To be so uniquely who you are that
your music cannot be easily called one thing or another." Her words
took me aback. I wondered if they were actually true. People have
forever asked me what I call my music and I have never had a good answer
for them. What I usually say is this: "Instead of telling people what
kind of music I sing, why don't you just tell them how it makes you
feel?" Honestly, I never set out to be anything but myself in what I
sing and write. I just always wanted my music to be an expression of
what I feel and experience - and so melodic that you sing can sing it
for years and not get tired of it. It may be true that this will never
cause me to sell millions of CDs, but it sure feels good when I sing my
songs and find that, whether I'm singing one I wrote twenty years ago or
yesterday, I am soulfully satisfied with it.

That recent Saturday night in the lush
backyard gardens in Beverly Hills, among fountains and night-lit pool
and elegant table settings, I watched the people in the audience,
noticed how their faces softened when they heard my songs, the way some
reached out and touched each other and even leaned their heads over on
their partners' shoulders. By normal audience standards it was quite a
wealthy crowd, the driveway and street full of luxury cars and even a
couple of limos. Yet the people were no different than others I've sang
for over the years. I've seen those same expressions in the faces of
tough street kids at an East L.A. concert and in old timer's eyes in a
rowdy Montana bar back in my early years. It's the same tenderness - and
the same wonder that music can touch something in you that you didn't
even know needed touching.

I closed my eyes occasionally, getting
slightly lost in my own stories and memories. And when I opened my eyes
again it was a pleasure to see such delighted, radiant faces looking
back, sending back to me every bit of the love I was singing to them. I
don't usually think of Los Angeles as a soft and tender place, but it
was that night.

After all these years of performing
concerts, I'm still finding that there are new directions for me to go
in playing my music. I'm beginning to share my songs at hospitals and
schools. I make no money from these events and need to eventually find
ways to subsidize or find sponsors for these concerts, but I'm not
worried about it right now. Sometimes you just do the things you know
how to do and allow the rest to flow together in it's own time.

I am looking at some ways that I might get
sponsorship for special compilation CDs I create to give away at these
events and for charities to sell in order to raise money for their
causes. I'll describe the basic idea here and if you are a part of a
company or organization that might like to join me, I'd love to talk to
you about it.

The concept: Create
compilation CDs from my body of work, ie., Favorite Recordings; Love
Songs, Nature Songs, Songs of the Seasons, etc. These will have
beautiful CD covers, allowing for substantial room on back and inside
for sponsorship logos and information and also information about the
charitable organization or cause. I've made a sample CD recently to
benefit Children's Hospital. The CD is called, Songs from the Pacific
Northwest. When I perform at hospitals or schools my ideal situation is
to be able to give patients and children my CDs for free. If I can find
sponsorship to help me with this, I am willing to make only a couple of
dollars per CD rather than my normal $17 price. I will not make much
money but this will help me to be able to do the concerts for free.

What's in it for the sponsor? Several
things:(1)Prominent, attractive display on the CD cover. For instance ~
This CD to benefit Children's Hospital is made possible by a generous
grant from The Evergreen Corporation. Company logo and contact info and
other information can be included. (2)Sponsors will be posted on my website and given onstage
acknowledgement whenever I'm performing related benefit concerts so that
people in the community know this organization is supportive of
community events and causes. (3)Arrangements may be made for sponsors to receive CDs to give away
to their own staff, employees and customers. (4)Arrangements may also be made for private concert for sponsoring
companies or organizations.

In order for me to create these CDs for
giveaway I must manufacture at least 1000 at a time and I'll generally
need in the neighborhood of $5000 to cover manufacturing, artwork,
printing and mastering - and a couple of dollars profit. If I'm working
with a larger sponsor who wants to create many more CDs, the price will
come down considerably.

I'm still working on My Book as I write these silly ramblings. Still writing songs, filling CD
orders, just generally doing the things one does when he is a
folkslinger with an hilarious little white dawg and a backyard full of
cats, squirrels, raccoons, opossums and birdies. What I've also been
doing lately is trying to avoid nasty politics on tv. This seems nearly
impossible. If one is going to actually watch tv and not witness this
slander it requires two things:
1) a firearm with plenty o' rubber bullets
2) a steady supply of tvs. Fortunately, I have a
WalMart
account and receive an
excellent new tv from Malaysia
every three days. (only $29.95
for a 19"!)

I've avoided
writing about the upcoming presidential election for several reasons,
among them a desire not to elevate my heart rate to statospheric levels.
But also because I honor that many people have highly emotional
attachment to certain philosophies, political views and parties. It's my
desire to find an authentic way to approach the subject and explore it,
but if I fall short, please forgive me and just know that I'm really
trying. To start out, may I suggest that we all take some deep breaths?

I have some questions: What if we were to step outside of our fear,
outside of our blind habits and our overstressed thinking, ignoring our
past voting records and our family's traditional party affiliations, and
ask our own Hearts what is best? No one says we have to obey what we
hear, but what could it hurt to sincerely ask? I'm talking about
actually asking for the guidance to come through your heart and then
listening to what comes up from within. Following the heart is often
considered inferior to following the brain. But what if the heart could
guide the mind? What if, even if we do not understand how this
works, we were to breathe into our hearts and ask which candidate is
capable of the greatest human understanding and leadership? Which is
capable of the highest spiritual intelligence and the most genuine form
of honoring humanity? What if we did not second guess this by trying to
reason out why this or that person's approach will not work, but simply
ask the question of our Heart? The answer may not appear as a great
blaze of writing in the sky, but I believe it will come to us. And then
we may decide if we will listen and trust the wisdom our hearts or not.

I keep remembering that it is not necessary to make one candidate wrong
- in order to make the other right. They are both flawed humans. And so
am I. And so is every human walking this planet. If we judge one and
make him a villain, we will not be assisting our world or our country in
becoming a more peaceful, enlightened place. That may sound simplistic
but please consider it a minute. If we hate what we perceive to be
the other side, we are participating in dividing our nation instead
of healing it. If we follow our hearts and encourage others to do the
same, we are for something, and not necessarily against
something else. There is a difference. Being for something is a form of
love and expansion. Being against something is a form of contraction, a
form of anxiety or stress.

The news programs tell us constantly that we are a nation almost equally
divided, yet I feel almost all of us want mostly the same things. Don't
we all want peace in our lives and good health and decent standards of
living? Don't we want children to be safe and happy and well-educated?
Don't we all want the Earth herself to be healthy and vitally alive as
well? So don't tell me that we are really all that deeply divided. We
are only divided as to how those in power would define us - and do their
best to keep us. Power wants to live, it want's to survive and grow and
it cares not for who pays the price of it's survival. But benevolent,
awakening people can see this and take the steps necessary to call forth
their own authentic power. We don't have to do it with hatred, just take
the steps necessary and move on. It is not beyond our capabilities and
it never was.

On Election Day it is my plan to offer rides to voters who have no
transportation. I will do this without asking a single person who they
will vote for. I hope those of you who can join me in this service will
put up notice around your neighborhood as well. We will be proof that we
are not really a nation deeply divided, but a nation of people who honor
each other and have faith that we will be guided to the highest good.

Thanks for visiting my site and for listening to my songs. Because of
you I've been allowed to have an extraordinary life of creating my hopes
and dreams in music. If I get any concerts in your area I'll be sure and
send you notice. I hope you have a lovely autumn. Now get out there and
play in those leaves. (with or without clothes)

Yer ol' fren, ~Michael Tomlinson

PS, if there is the
slightest chance that I have a defunct mailing address for you - I
send postcards sometimes when I have a show in your area - please
be sure and send me your correct address. If you think I might not
have your correct email for early notice, please send it to me,
too. I never share my list, so your privacy is always honored.
Email me at mt@michaeltomlinson.com